


Point of Impact

by snarechan



Series: Firearm Ideology [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Future, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Companion Piece, DO NOT COPY TO ANOTHER SITE OR APP, Do not repost, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, M/M, Parallel Universes, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:29:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28672275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snarechan/pseuds/snarechan
Summary: Point of Impact (Aimpoint):verb1. the point at which the projectile first strikes the ground or other material object.verb2. Russia coming to an understanding.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Series: Firearm Ideology [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/485408
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Point of Impact

**Author's Note:**

> To reiterate: this is a companion piece to [Point of Aim](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17976311), and it is strongly recommended that you read PoA _first_. Otherwise, some scenes in this story might not make sense without context because I didn't want to entirely rewrite whole scenes. 
> 
> Credit to [resident-longwinded-anon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/resident_longwinded_anon) and their [challenge meme](http://resident-longwinded-anon.tumblr.com/post/99087361601/its-fairly-self-explanatory-i-think-i-was) that I found (specifically the prompt parallel universes/war). To anyone new here, there's no real "ending" planned, although there will be an order of events centered on how terrible an idea it might be like if these two were in a situation to work together in a semi-distant future setting. 
> 
> My thanks to Philophrosynae for beta reading this insanely long story. Be sure to check out their own rusame stories here on ao3!

Splitting up was America's idea. Russia had voiced his doubts, but in hindsight he should have argued harder against the notion. Although at the time, the other nation's plan had made sense. Their forces, while combined, _were_ limited and the ground they must cover was not.

Prior to their arrival the clouds overhead had broken into rain. It was _always_ raining, it seemed. Visibility was hampered and, due to the poor conditions, their joint strike team had to travel on foot. Russia led his remaining troops, all two of them, toward the last reported enemy sighting. Whereas America went alongside his men and women in the opposite direction to ensure the invading forces didn't double-back.

Russia's small group scoured the terrain for signs of a disturbance, but any evidence was washed away. He was determined to forge on, anyway. This wet and this cold did not bother him, especially if it meant capturing new sources of enemy intel.

He conveyed this to his comms specialist, who covered the rear and spoke into his headset with the coded update. During this latest exchange, America's voice cut through the line. " _Y-yeah, everything looks clear here. Squad B can continue onward. We'll…catch up at the rendezvous point at thirteen-hundred hours. Over._ "

 _No debate?_ Russia noted, the observation having him halt in a dead stop. America wasn't a coward by any means, but they did not understand how to talk without turning everything into a dispute. If Russia thought it pertinent to proceed, then America would demand a cease, and vice versa. That he acquiesced to Russia's suggestion…

"We are turning back," Russia barked in his native tongue, making a cutting motion to signal his men away from the assigned meeting point.

"Sir?" His specialist’s hand paused on the transmitter, not yet relaying the change in their course of action. He never got the chance.

An ear-splitting screech filled all their headsets as the line flooded with negative feedback. An explosion went off in tandem in the distance. It originated from the direction in which America and his team had gone.  
  
  
  
  
People and countries alike underestimated Russia. They saw his considerable build, how tall and thick he was, and mistook him for slow. That did not mean he actually _was._

Right that second he didn't want calculated movements or lumbering, imposing footsteps. Russia wanted to shorten the gap between his unit and America's. On their first pass, his small troop had taken maybe twenty minutes to search the area. On his return, Russia shortened that to six. His sprint far outmatched his men, who valiantly tried to keep pace even as he outdistanced them.

Finding the other half of their search party was not difficult. Smoke and still falling debris led him to a crater the size of a truck. Bodies were strewn everywhere. None of America's fellow soldiers were moving. But neither were the enemy combatants that were mingled amongst them.

"Corporal Jones?" he called, scouring the fallout and looking for anything familiar. His blond hair or that ridiculous jacket that he never went without – hopefully still _attached_ to the man so Russia could locate him.

In his wanderings Russia almost tripped over America. He was stuck partially in the mud, covered by branches, rocks, and some dirt. Russia kneeled and discarded the rubble. His hand cramped with how fast it came up short when he reached the other nation's legs. Or leg, rather.

Russia's expression slackened as his mind rushed to determine how best to hurry America's extraction. There would be _no_ easy way. During his internal struggle America came to. His eyes were unfocused behind his glasses, but he was very much awake as he tried to sit up.

"Be still," Russia ordered, and understanding that America wouldn't listen he forced him down with a firm hand on the chest. To be moving this soon indicated shock, which meant Russia didn't have much time.

"Stupid," he muttered, dropping the gear on his back to the ground. "Idiot." Frantic, Russia wrenched off his own jacket, which was longer and thicker than America's own. Russia wrapped the other nation in it as best he could, attempting to form a tourniquet around his lower half to stem the loss of blood. "Reckless, stupid _idiot._ "

A separate part of Russia acknowledged that his team had caught up with him. His communications expert was not new to the sight of carnage, and had gone into action radioing the turn of events to their operations hub. Assistance was unable to meet them fast enough; their troop would have to meet with them partway.

He shifted and placed his arms underneath America's back. There was no stopping the rumbling growl that built up in his chest when he thought America was resisting, only for him to wrap an arm around Russia's neck instead. That part of him was sensitive in more than one meaning, but Russia preferred it to America's defiance. He permitted him to keep holding on.

"No, put me down. You need both hands free," America protested. Russia didn't have the patience to correct him. The troops they'd been tracking were harmless in their current condition. Thus Russia saved his breath for the running he would be doing and heaved his great shoulders, picking the other nation up.  
  
  
  
  
No one dared get in his way. The moment Russia set foot in camp everyone parted for him, making a straight line to the medicinal tents. Past the flap, nurses and doctors scrambled to tend to the needy. A few saw America's condition and rushed to lend their aid. The gesture was admirable, but Russia was looking for someone in particular. He ignored everyone else, marching past them as he stepped deeper inside.

Russia didn't make a habit of raising his voice. He preferred to let his body language do most of the talking for him, and normally that was enough. However right here, right now, would be amongst a handful of times he spoke out. "Captain Williams!"

A blond head matching America's popped up in the back; Russia immediately zeroed in on the movement. At the sight of his approach, Canada's face went from trepidation to a different sort of fear, then settled on determined. Waving Russia to a side compartment, Canada held the flap open for him until they passed through. The space may have once served for storing equipment, but as demand for more accommodations rose it'd been converted into a makeshift surgery room.

Russia hurried to set America down on the table, and in his haste he accidentally jostled his amputated leg. America woke with a gasp. He glanced around, his hair plastered to his forehead by sweat and rainwater. Canada had been right behind Russia and took the chance to check his brother's status, shining a light in America's eyes. His response to the glare was delayed as America didn't seem to notice their presence until after several moments.

"Mattie, what're you doing here? You…you're s'pposed to be at the medical encampment." _He’s delirious_ , Russia noted, his eyes trailing from America to Canada.

Canada's mouth tightened into a thin line as he clicked the light off. "He's losing too much blood. He might have _already_ lost too much blood."

Moving onto America's injured leg, Canada tried to rip away the fabric to see the damage better. Fed up with his attempt, Russia whipped out his knife and cut the remains of his pant leg off himself. While he finished with that task, Canada didn't waste any more time as he went to retrieve supplies from a nearby shelf.

He held two shots in his hand. One would be enough for an average human being, but Russia didn't question Canada's decision to resort to double the normal dosage as he plunged the needles into the thick of America's thigh. His brother didn't even notice the intrusion.

"Mattie. _Mattie_. You need to leave. I promised I wouldn't make you a part of—"

"Will that be enough?" Russia asked over America’s ramblings.

Canada said, "If I inject him with more… Just hold Alfred down."

Russia didn't hesitate. Repositioning himself, he braced one knee on the surface supporting America and placed both hands on his upper body. When Canada tore open the wound his brother _thrashed_ in retaliation. America's eyes shot wide open and his screams were terrible. Gritting his teeth, Russia pressed back with everything, _everything_ , he had. All the same, he was nearly knocked to the floor.

To be heard over America's shouting, Canada yelled, "You need to keep him still!"

With few options left to them, Russia raised his fist. When his knuckles made contact with the other nation's jaw there was a sharp snap of bones cracking, but it didn't originate from America. The pain in his hand was worth the temporary quiet.  
  
  
  
  
"No! No, no, no… The defibrillator hasn't recharged yet," Canada said, struggling not to divert his attention between surgically removing bits of metal left inside America and the erratic beeping of the heart monitor. They might have been able to delay this part of the procedure if the pieces weren't blocking significant parts of America from healing correctly. "He's stopped breathing— He just flatlined again!"

Without prompting, Russia started in on the chest compressions, which was no easy feat considering he only had _one_ good hand. He worried about America's ribs or lungs collapsing, but if he didn’t put his full weight down then _nothing happened._ With tremendous force Russia did thirty, precise pumps. The other country's chest flexed just enough to force air in. By the end of the set sweat had formed at Russia's temples and threatened to slip down his nose.

As Russia placed a ventilator over America's mouth to force in some air, Canada pulled out the last obstacle. The metal chunk made a harsh _tink_ as it joined the rest of the fragments in their metal dish, followed by America's gasp for air. Russia only let up when the equipment tracking his vitals tapered off to a steadier rhythm, all without needing to resort to the AED.

"Thank goodness. If I can get him sewn up…and we keep him breathing…" Canada's eyes shifted to America's face, then back to his work. Russia didn't comment, nor did he stray far, not until he was sure Canada's work was finished.  
  
  
  
  
Ten days had passed. Ten days in which America hadn't stirred except for fever dreams that caused him to toss on his cot, muttering anxiously. One or two further complications had arose since America's admission here. None were serious, not like what had afflicted him in the beginning, but this did not lessen Russia's apprehension.

During the other nation's recovery period, Russia had left to exchange his dirtied uniform for a new one and given his reports through the proper channels. War waited for no one, but when his superiors weren't issuing their demands or his compatriots seeking his counsel, Russia spared what little time he had at America's bedside. The chair groaned more and more the longer it was forced to bear his weight. He didn't care.

Leaning forward in his seat, Russia removed a glove to examine the bruise on America's jaw. He tilted the younger country's face. His touch must have had some effect because America's tossing and turning subsided.

Their bodies were interesting things. They tended to prioritize – healing the smaller, easier damages only after the more detrimental ones had been dealt with. Russia's mercy strike had left quite the bruise on America’s face. On the first day it was black, blue, and red. Now, it was an ugly brown and yellow that would be gone come noon. The lacerations across the rest of America's body were long since closed. Most didn't need to be treated or bandaged; none of them were going to scar. Nations were not marred so easily.

As for America's lost limb… In comparison, there was no telling how long it would take him to restore such a major aspect of himself. Russia knew many such misfortunes, but those were different ages. He was weaker then, and technology not as advanced as it is today. Gauging the restorative period of a nation in these times was nigh impossible.

Before Russia could delve too deeply into such concerns, Canada returned from what he assumed were his other errands. Despite Canada's misgivings about all the fighting, he'd made a point of mandating every aspect of the medical side. While he wasn't directly in charge, little appeared to get past him. A lot of liability weighed on his decisions and while Russia could tell Canada wanted to be here, overseeing America’s condition, he wouldn't shirk his numerous other responsibilities.

"Alfred's still lazing about, eh?" Canada asked. He didn't seem to expect an answer, so Russia didn't provide one. The resounding silence in the room was indication enough, regardless. "At least his vitals haven't triggered anything. They seem to be stable."

 _He's rather chatty today_ , Russia mused. Watching Canada for a moment, when it became clear that the other nation would keep stating the obvious he said, "You have news. What is it?"

Canada fumbled with his ministrations. He'd been righting the crisp, course sheets, but the material was already pulled tight around America. "Well. I was inspecting the shrapnel residue from… I can't be absolutely _sure_ , I can only guess—"

With his good hand, Russia gripped his knee. At the sight, Canada came to a conclusion and fumbled inside his pocket. He held out one of the metal pieces he'd extracted from America's injury. It looked to be the largest fragment recovered; it'd been washed and sterilized. Canada relinquished it, letting the metal chunk fall into Russia's upturned palm. He turned it over in-between his fingers.

The inscription in its entirety was missing, but there was enough Cyrillic and numbering for Russia to connect the dots. His fingers clenched around the bit of metal, its jagged edges digging in past his glove. All Russia could formulate to say was, "Ah. I see."

A tick developed in Canada's right cheek as he bit the inside of his mouth, and then, "I'm sure you can tell it's quite old, even ancient. The explosive device…it's just unfortunate that it was still active."

Unable to formulate a response, Russia may never have responded even if they weren't interrupted. A soldier wearing Russian colors burst inside, frantically searching until they landed eyes on him in the chair. "Sir! Your presence is requested in the War Room. It is urgent."

Nodding once, Russia dismissed the messenger and got to his feet. He pocketed the metal fragment. If Canada had protests to his confiscation, he knew better than to voice them.  
  
  
  
  
Russia wasn't there for the beginning of the argument, but he was inclined to _finish_ what Canada and America had started. It figured that the other nation would awaken _after_ one of Russia's departures. He'd returned to their shared, upraised voices – America's distinctiveness of the two quite clear. Their heated exchange wasn't legible unless someone were directly outside the room America was relocated to, but the topic was not one that should be risked.

Peeking his head inside, Russia said, "Children, children! Must I separate you two?"

He was capable of handling their shared looks of contention as they redirected their ire at him. Canada broke off first, giving America his attention. "Sulk all you want, but I can't in good conscience let you back out there." And contrary to his soft-spoken words Canada stormed out, brushing past Russia and vanishing into the crowd of people milling about the tent.

Glancing back, Russia saw America glaring at nothing in particular, fingers clenching and unclenching the bed sheet. It was unclear if he was resentful at not getting in the last word or at his given situation, but in either case Russia refrained from broaching the subject. Without a word, Russia entered and reclaimed his seat. He purposefully made a slight commotion in pulling back the chair and getting situated, the noise garnering America's focus.

"How long was I out for?" he asked.

"Two weeks." America's eyes grew comically wide, more so without his glasses perched on his face to block them. Russia went on to explain, "There were…complications, but you are awake now. That is a good indicator, yes?"

"Yeah, well. Not good enough for Mattie, I guess," America petulantly said. His hands stayed unyielding on the bed covering, his hands threatening to shred the material.

Russia sympathized, but there was a heavy weight in his pocket that couldn't disagree with Canada's diagnosis. Concluding that the majority of their argument must have revolved around whether or not America would be staying on, Russia schooled his expression and went against his own wishes to say, "I suppose his concerns are not without merit."

"But shipping me back home? Are you kidding me? Not when we're—" _Ah_ , Russia thought. He'd been correct in his assumption, then. Taking a breath to steady himself, America finished his line of thinking. "I'm not ready. There's still so much left to do, ya know?"

"I know," Russia said, but internally he was convinced it'd be for the best. He repeated that mantra in his head until he almost believed it.  
  
  
  
  
Once Russia’s broken hand was steady, returning to the action couldn't be delayed any longer. Russian armies were spread too thin, and he knew American forces were not fairing much better. Their combined efforts were not enough; every able body needed to be out in the field. And as a superior officer Russia's expertise was in higher demand than most.

He resumed his duties reluctantly, but in time a fervor built inside of him. Russia _wanted_ to personally see to it that the enemy scurried back into their hiding places. The metal in his pocket remained, weighing his actions. The burden was incentive enough to do _better_ , to fight _harder_. Once he'd started, it seemed as if Russia couldn't fathom stopping.  
  
  
  
  
Casualties were minor. All those in his troop came back alive, albeit there were some wounded. His gunnery chief, Vera, was the sole individual to suffer the most out of the enemy encounter. Russia did not resist feeling proud in witnessing her assurances that the opposition had suffered worse for their transgressions. People such as her were what made _him_ so strong.

Her face was set in firm resignation as a nurse tended to her arm. The stabbing hadn't struck anything vital, but it'd be awhile before a weapon could rest in her hands as it once did.

"I can still fight," Vera told him. Her gaze was not on Russia, but on the two men hovering at the entrance to the treatment tent. Spotting them from the corner of his eye, Russia noticed how they shared in her wavy hair.

The determination in her voice reminded him of someone else's. Russia didn't dare look toward the back of the facility, where he understood America to reside if he were even still here. If he was, then surely he'd be shipped off soon.   
  
"In due time," he said.

"I _can_ ," Vera reiterated, with deeper conviction. "I will fight. You know what I am capable of."

His expression didn't waver. "You do not trust me?"

Vera tensed. "That is not my meaning."

"I asked you a question," he reminded her, although his tone was not unkind when he could have been. She didn't avert her stare, but Russia noted the way her lip twisted.

"You have not led us astray. I do trust you." Her voice was humbled, but sure.

"Then do as you are instructed and regain your strength. Your station will be waiting for you," Russia assured her. Now he looked toward the men standing by the entrance, their posture defensive as if guarding it. New faces like theirs would need to replace his depleted unit. He understood how unfortunate such circumstances were. "Until then, continue to trust that I have everyone's best interests in mind."

Vera mirrored his gaze. "Yes, Sir." Picking up her understanding, Russia nodded his head once and took his leave. As he passed them, the two men hesitated a moment more before rushing in to fill the void he'd made. Russia permitted the siblings their reunion, for it would not be long until those who were able would be called to battle again.

He did not allow himself the same sentiment. He was impatient to return to combat, not wanting to chance losing the ground they'd covered. Or so he claimed.  
  
  
  
  
The sound of gunfire pattered out as the Russian army pushed their advance. Weeks of toil in the downpour and the resulting mud were showing results. Distantly, Russia was reminded of days when trenches were common of warfare. This didn't feel so different. Despite the advancements in technology and strategy, certain things hadn't changed. When the enemy possessed what you had matters went so slowly.

He was in the middle of issuing commands when a messenger came running up from the rear. The individual was out of place and Russia was keen in spotting them. It was rare, although not unusual, for certain missives to come delivered as such. Classified or top secret documentation that was too high risk to be sent via radio or satellite would be sent this way, lest it be overheard by the enemy and translated. Russia was silent as he held out his hand to retrieve whatever the courier had risked bringing.

There was only a single note. The message wasn't even in an envelope or other protective casing. It was a simple piece of paper, folded in half. One corner was damp and wrinkled from its travels, but as Russia flipped it open with a thumb the memo remained legible. His hand wavered as he read it, before his entire body went explicably still. Russia didn't even breathe.

The sender hadn't attached their name, yet the cursive was unmistakable. Russia recognized the large text and unnecessary flourishes as none other than America's distinct handwriting. He'd fought for _weeks_ and never come undone, not until Russia read the words ' _I miss you.'_

His eyes closed of their own volition. The letter remained seared in his mind. He lifted the refolded piece of paper to his lips in contemplation.

Reopening his eyes to regard the men and women surrounding him, he noted they were all waiting on his verdict. Vera's two brothers stood out near the front, looking haggard from the strenuous trek, but patient despite their youth. _Should we forge onward or be relieved, as the group hasn’t stopped once since we set out?_ was the question. Russia knew they would follow him without question, whatever the order.

Perhaps, a tad selfishly, Russia thought that they had earned the right to rest. Tucking the note away in a pocket already occupied by metal, Russia issued the command to return to base. The lack of rest didn't hinder their steady progress, his steps heaviest of all, but Russia did not waver in his decision.  
  
  
  
  
He didn't mean to stir. Mumbling, Russia felt…not _content_ , but something akin to it. Russia awoke not amongst fighting nor on the battlefield, as he was accustomed, which may have attributed to his disturbed rest. The peace and quiet was strange, _unreal_.

Past his pale eyelashes he saw signs of the morning hour. Sunlight tinted the tent walls. Not enough to be annoying, but Russia could identify his surroundings by its shadows. The outline of America's face was situated above him.

The other nation had fallen asleep, too, all without removing his glasses first. The eyewear had slid down to perch lopsidedly on his nose. Careful, so as not to disturb him, Russia plucked them off his face and folded them one-handed. There was enough room to situate his glasses next to where America had set Russia's hat the night prior.

Many important issues demanded Russia's attention. He'd never reported in to his superiors upon his arrival, nor eaten as he should. There were plans to devise, soldiers to supervise, a war to win. Between their chests was a piece of metal that'd never stopped commanding him.

Instead, Russia entertained himself with memorizing the pattern of freckles on America's skin until sleep took him again.  
  
  
  
  
Russia had gone in search of sustenance. About all he could stomach was coffee, which he lifted from the small cafeteria that resided in the basement of the building their shared units occupied. Outside, snow and ice had set in as the many months passed, replacing the rainstorms, but not the cold.

 _This is not a retreat_ , Russia knew. His home territory was the safest place to wait and bide their time. General Winter was fiercely at work this season to keep the enemy forces at bay. Their time spent here was a much needed opportunity to recuperate their losses.

The Russian troops in particular were accustomed to such conditions, but in passing into the American side of operations the tension was palpable. Their allies were easy to identify with their winter uniforms, some thicker even indoors. The only article of clothing missing were their hats, which he understood had to be removed per protocol.

His presence earned curious looks or outright glares, but Russia's importance was obvious and, wisely, no one deterred him. Stepping inside the Command Room, an older man wearing a Colonel insignia looked up from the monitor in front of them. He scowled and thumbed toward the back of the room, indicating a secluded corner where a bank of several more displays created a vast wall of information.

Russia walked around the corner of computer towers to see America. Chin resting on the heel of his palm and fingers curled under his nose, America leaned on the desk at an angle that couldn't be safe or good for his back. He reclined his feet on another confiscated roller chair. Altogether, Russia was uncomfortable just looking at him spread out in such a fashion.

"You are entertained?" Russia asked in lieu of a greeting. He motioned to the computer screens, each monitor flashing area footage from different regions. Some were interior shots from cameras, whereas others were of the exterior of the building – the grounds or public roads, with some aerial equipment taking recordings of further away.

America's expression didn't falter in the slightest as his head flopped in Russia's direction, not until he saw the drinks Russia carried. Perking up, America made grabby hands at the cups. "Are you kidding? My eyeballs are going to fall out any second, Ivan. I've been staring at these screens for nine hours! _Nine. Hours._ Please tell me that's blessed, beautiful coffee you're carrying."

"Poor thing," Russia said, not even vying for sympathetic. He didn't waste time confirming the contents of the drink as he offered one of the Styrofoam cups, heavy with black sludge posing as caffeine. Along his trip here, Russia had contemplated the merits of adding vodka to make it liquid again, but thought better of it. That would have been a terrible waste of good alcohol.

Using his right leg to lift both appendages into the air, America made room for Russia to take the extra seat, then plopped his feet back down in Russia's lap. This he did not mind; in fact, Russia took advantage to examine America's progress. He set his cup down on the desk, keeping a firm grip with one hand since the coffee was at least good for keeping him warm, while the other hand rubbed from America's thigh down to his knee.

The regeneration process was not always so strenuous. Joints and the like, _those_ were the worst of it. His thumb followed the slight dip and curves of cartilage under skin, not easily felt through America's combat gear. The nation's wince did not go unnoticed, although America's attempt to hide the grimace behind his cup was predictable. Russia did not comment on the gesture.

"You are through first stage," Russia said. Feeling further down, he trailed the curve of muscle and sinew to his calf. The splint was not obvious under the layers of clothes, supplying support and filling in America's boot to serve as a base until his foot grew in. That would be the last of the recovery. The numerous, tiny bones would be an unpleasant experience, to say the least.

The leg in Russia's hand twitched, startling him out of his musings. He looked over at America to see him openly staring back, expression inscrutable. The other nation asked, "You know, you've kind of been a Gloomy Gus lately. What's up?"

"Have not." Russia knew how childish his statement sounded, but refused to take back the words. America had a habit of reducing him to such a mindset and Russia couldn't help it, sometimes. "Been gloomy, that is. You imagine things."

"Are, too," America said, and nudged him with his boot again. "Come on, darlin'. Talk to me!"

Turning away, he knew if he saw into America's eyes he'd been finished and unable to resist. "Do not…'dah-lean' at me."

America laughed, alleviating some of Russia's apprehension, but the other nation's smile was a little forced. Perhaps enough time _had_ passed, that sharing the weight of the metal piece burning a hole in his jacket was worth it. Steeling himself, Russia reached inside his breast pocket and latched onto the fragment. He placed it on the desk, the material making a soft clatter on its surface.

The bit of metal sat untouched for a moment, then America's brows cinched together. In his curiosity, he grabbed for it. America wore gloves, fingerless ones that kept his hands warm during this weather, but allowed him to type unimpeded while he worked. His fingertips examined the landmine fragment, turning it over and rubbing along the softer edges.

"Alright, I give. This some kind of souvenir?" he asked.

"In a matter of speaking," Russia said. His intention was not to be cryptic, even if it may have come across that way. Unknowingly, the pad of Russia's thumb traced circles into America's synthetic ankle – a nervous habit he wasn't conscious of.

Looking down at his moving hand, America said, "Oh." And then a little more breathless, " _Oh_." Another pause. "Well. It can be said that when you guys put your mind to it, you sure as shit build things to last."

Russia twitched. The motion was so encompassing that his smile ticked and traveled to his hand. Fingers pinched America down to where skin met plastic.

"Yeouch; quit that!" America's leg gave a tug, but Russia's grip wasn't so easily matched. "I mean, what I _meant_ was—" He pouted, the expression doing nothing to calm Russia's irritation, but what he had to say was much more serious. "You know, almost a century of this and we still can't seem to get it right, can we?"

"What is your meaning?"

America fiddled with the metal fragment, choosing to stare at it rather than him. "I _might_ not have been completely honest with you. Remember when we were scouting that day?" Russia did, _vivdly_ , but his input wasn't required by how quickly America kept talking. "It's…fuzzy, but I recall…" His face scrunched up at the memory, or lack thereof. It was an obvious struggle to make sense of everything. "I knew _exactly_ when I stepped on that landmine. Heard it click into place over everything else going on when it activated. The real kicker is I just don't know why I didn't report the incident immediately.

"Probably over something petty, like, I don't know. Not wanting you to think I was dumb for getting myself in such a mess? Kelly volunteered to help me disarm it, maybe. I can't…" America spoke in a rush now, his words running into each other. Russia gently squeezed his ankle, but that only ushered America to explain faster.

"There was _no_ reason worth their lives, is the thing. Kelly, and Thompson, and Mason – I'm not even the one that had to tell their families what happened. The Captain did, when it should have been _me_ —"

"Enough," Russia said. "It is not—"

"My fault?" America asked. The smile he wore was anything but typical. Self-depreciation didn't look good on him. "Yeah, well, neither is _this_." He held up the remnant of the landmine. "Not that either of us seems liable to believe in ourselves, lately. We can't seem to open up when it _matters_."

"We are opening up now," he pointed out, earning him a tilt of the head.

"I…guess so," America said. Seeming to come back to himself, he noticed the metal piece he twirled in his fingers and offered it back. Russia stopped him mid-motion and curled America's hand around it.

"You keep. Is souvenir, like you said."

"Hm." America eyed the piece. Placing it between both hands, he snapped it in two. He kept half for himself, then offered the rest to Russia. "How about we both keep some as a reminder?"

This gift Russia did accept. He returned his piece to his inner pocket, its weight manageable in this size. America's smile was much more genuine, until one of the screens stole his attention. He stared at it before letting out a curse, his hands going to the keyboard and entering several commands. The live feed zoomed in on the enemy forces charging their fortress walls.

The room quickly filled with activity as everyone went on high alert. America's screens emptied of all other incoming recordings as they reset, save the one concentrated on their opposition. The imagery took up every screen to form a bigger picture. Other computers in the room showed similar data, like area maps with heat signatures.

Russia was already getting out of his chair before the alarm sounded. Overhead lights turned from soft white or blue to red as the building went into lockdown. He was readying to leave when he felt a snag on his scarf, it stopping Russia in his tracks.

"Hey," America said, hunched in his seat and eyes locked on him. "Be careful, you hear? I'll be watching you and know if you're not." The other nation held Russia's gaze, unfazed by the goings-on around them.  
  
  
  
  
"Of course. I promise."

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [writing blog on Tumblr](http://snaurus.tumblr.com/) for more content or [come say hi to me on Twitter](https://twitter.com/snaurus)!


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